


kairos

by Nic6879



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nic6879/pseuds/Nic6879
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>kairos<br/>(ancient Greek)</p>
<p>
  <i>(n) the perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the opportune atmosphere for action, words, or movement; the time of possibility.</i>
  <br/><i>also, the word for weather.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it happens, he barely dares to move. Has to remind himself to breathe, in and out, in and out.

For just a moment he wonders if this is a dream but he dismisses the notion immediately. He knows. The touch of her fingertips is too real. Cold as they scatter over his skin, tentative in the way they skate past the curve of his ribcage and then settle on his waist. The fleeting press of her knees into the back of his, and the lithe lines of her draped alongside his body, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, yet, not close enough to touch. 

He lies on his side, stares unseeing into the darkness of his bedroom, doesn’t dare to move lest he scare her away. He wants to keep it, can't quite grasp that it’s real; this fantasy, this apparition in the dark of the night; this hushed, dreamlike moment where she is curled into his bed, her slender body barely making any indentations in his mattress. 

He wants to keep her.

_Kate._

It is the middle of the night, the wintry cold howling outside the window and somehow, she has come to his home and crawled into his bed. 

He pretends to sleep, to not wake up while she settles beneath his comforter and sheets, his body tensed and all his senses focused on her. He’s keenly aware of each breath she takes, every slide of her limbs and subtle twitch of her fingers. The scrape of her toes along his calves is ice-cold against his skin, such a stark contrast to the heat coming off her body, now trapped underneath the blanket. His throat clogs with a tangle of emotions when the breaths she sucks into her lungs sound too suspiciously like sobs. 

He doesn’t know how she’d come in - had his mother let her inside somewhere around two-thirty in the morning or did she utilize her superior lock picking skills? Doesn't know why either, but he doesn’t care one bit. 

Tendrils of her scent cocoon him, bridging the wide, obscure chasm of longing that gapes between them. The feather-light weight of her palm over his waist their only point of contact, the only touch she seems to allow herself. So close and yet, so apart. 

So lonely. 

He breaches the divide. He can’t _not_ reel her in, tug her closer, the need to feel her against him a stark, unbearable thing that makes his heart clatter in his chest. Ever so slowly, as if he’s approaching a skittish animal, he moves his arm, holding his breath while his palm settles on top of her hand, his fingers finding a home within the gaps of hers. 

The silence seems to pulsate between them; her body feels taut, frozen in place but her fingers tremor at his waist. He tugs at her hand, her arm, pulls her close until her body is spooned along the length of his back, fitting around the curve of his rear and the slant of his thighs, like puzzle pieces made to click together, her curves and angles filling all his empty, yearning spaces. 

He presses her palm to his chest where his heart beats just for her, and her fingers curl over his collarbone, once, twice; evanescent scrapes of her nails that make his skin tingle. She wiggles her hips, fitting herself more firmly against him, getting comfortable. Heat unfurls in his midsection, races through his veins and he has to bite back a groan, vigorously squashes it down. Her icy toes poke his calves. He lifts his leg, creates a small gap of space for her to slide her feet between his shins, and then he folds the warmth of his limbs closed around her. 

And then her whole body seems to just melt, relaxing against him as if a heavy weight has been lifted from her, her lips just barely brushing his spine as she sighs tonelessly. 

He tries to keep his eyes open, doesn’t want to fall asleep, doesn’t want to miss a single moment of Kate Beckett in his bed, draped warm and so, so soft against him. But her breathing evens out; her warmth and the familiar lure of her scent, the steady rise and fall of her chest lull him into a sense of comfort, of _rightness_ he hasn’t felt in a long while. 

The next thing he knows, he’s coming awake to the early morning grey that tickles his eyelids and she is gone, has left only the faint imprint of her head on the pillow. 

He rolls over, buries his face where her scent lingers in his linens. He draws in a deep breath, soaking in the ephemeral reminder of her presence. His stomach churns with the way he aches for her, cold and forlorn.

From that day on, he leaves his loft unlocked.


	2. Chapter 2

“Pretty stupid, leaving your door open like this,” she murmurs as she settles in behind him, her forehead pressed to the wide space between his shoulder blades, her warm breath seeping through his shirt, caressing his skin. Bolder this time, a little braver, the way she automatically spoons the length of her body against his back, one arm draped around his middle with her hand pressed to his sternum. Her fingers are cold but her skin is warm, the heat radiating through her sleep shirt and the leggings that encase her legs. How does a person as willowy as she give off so much warmth; doesn’t she need it herself?

It’s been days and he’d started wondering whether he’d dreamt it after all. They hadn’t talked about it. Of course not. They don’t talk. By day she is Kate Beckett, focused and indomitable, but he sees the cracks in her foundation now, the thin fissures that are grooved into the lines of her body. The weight on her shoulders that makes her wilt, sink in on herself when she believes nobody can see. But he sees. He sees her, all of her. The way she battles, fights, rises again and again, seemingly stronger than before and he’s so proud of her, completely enamored. And worried. 

Every once in a while he’d catch her looking at him, when she thought he didn’t notice, a wistful expression etched onto her face, the meaning of which he couldn’t quite figure out, and he knew it wasn’t a dream. 

He doesn't know why she comes, doesn't know what she needs but he doesn't care; it doesn't matter, as long as she's here, as long as she seeks him. 

It’s late. 

He’d been asleep already but his ears had immediately tuned into the soft snick of his front door as it fell closed, his eyes flying open. He’d rolled onto his side, left enough space for her on the other side of his bed, his heart throbbing in his throat while he waited for her. Pinched his eyes closed and pretended to sleep when her quiet steps came inside his bedroom, padded closer, rounded the bed. Listened to the rustle of fabric as she slipped off her coat and scarf, letting everything drop to the floor, as she toed off her socks, as she lifted the corner of the sheet and slid underneath, curling around him.

 _I was waiting for you._

The answer coats his tongue but he swallows it down; too much truth, too much desperate want. 

Besides, he's fairly certain she knows anyway. She’s here.

“Safe building." There’s a doorman, after all, and security throughout, and he doesn’t have that many obnoxious fans, and his daughter… Okay, yeah, it was stupid.

She makes him stupid. Stupidly in love with her.

“I’m so tired, Castle. Just so tired.” Her words are quiet, more whisper than voice, and the sadness, the quiet desperation that resonates through them tears him from his thoughts, rips right into him. He doesn’t know whether she’s just exhausted, or tired of this distance, or tired of fighting, doesn’t know what to offer when all he wants is to carry her burden for her. To be her strength, hold her up when she needs holding, share every pain and sorrow, bring her joy, ensure that her life is safe and delightful and fun. 

And it hurts, in ways nothing has ever hurt before, to stand back, to hold back, to not give her everything she deserves and then some because she’s the most extraordinary person he’s ever met. 

But at least he can give her this.

He turns on his back, keeping her hand tightly clasped within his to fold her into his chest. She comes easier than he would’ve expected, simply settles on top of him, her cheek to his sternum and one leg sliding between his. She's a pliable, tiny thing in his arms, feels so light draped over him, her hip bones sharp where they dig into his side, her ribs protruding, her knee pointy. Sharp angles where there should be more padded curves and he resolves to ply her with more food, watch out for her better until she can stand more firmly on her own. 

He runs his fingers down her spine, lingering in the valley of her lower back before he smoothes back up between her shoulder blades, fingertips curling at her neck, so grateful that she came, seeking solace in his arms. 

She snuffles into his chest, seems to sink into him, her body getting sleep-heavy, and he imagines that he can feel the barely-there stroke of her lashes brushing his skin when her eyes close. He buries his nose in her hair, allows himself for one long moment to feast on the familiar scent that lingers in the curly tumble, warm vanilla and almond, comforting and enticing both. The coil of want is pulled taut in his midsection, every part of him filled with devastating yearning that he can practically taste on his tongue. 

And it’s not even sexual. He just wants _her._ All of her.

“Sleep, Kate,” he whispers into her hair, continuing to caress the length of her back. Tries to infuse her skin with the knowledge that she's safe, that she's cared for, that he's got her now, imagines how it's spreading through her blood until it's bone-deep, a certain thing.


	3. Chapter 3

He jogs up to the crime scene, the cardboard carrier with two venti coffee cups clasped between his freezing fingers. The flaps of his open coat billow behind him; he forgot to button it up in his haste to get to the address she’d texted. To see her. An icy gust of wind bursts through the alley, howling around the dumpsters, snaking beneath his coat, underneath the edges of his sweater. He shivers violently. Winter came early this season, the late November storms arctic, like crystallized ice seeping into every crevice. 

But then Kate turns toward him, the sound of his hurried steps enough to alert her to his presence and he forgets all about the freezing cold. She smiles at him, lips stretching wide and the corners of her eyes crinkled with it, wider than he’s seen her smile lately and it’s all for him. It’s soft, yet dazzling just the same, the hazy grey light setting off the green brilliance in her eyes and his stomach flutters, like a million butterflies taking off for flight. 

So this is what he does for her. His heart stumbles with it. This is what he can do for her. 

His knees feel unsteady and he slows down, from a jog to a walk; like a normal person, he censors himself, less eager puppy but he feels alive with it, like he’s cracked open an unbreakable shell and revealed the most luminous, most perfect pearl. 

Every step carries him closer and yet she doesn’t turn back to the crime scene. She waits for him instead, watching him with that gentle smile. He picks up her coffee from the cardboard carrier when he reaches her, holds out his offering.

_Good morning, my love._

“Hey,” he says instead, his voice raw with it. He soaks her in, the way the cold has stained her cheeks rosy and how the wind has tousled her curls, strands of it framing her face that he wants to touch, wants to slide behind her ears and let his fingertips linger against the velvety patch of skin just beneath her ear. Notes also how the dark smudges underneath her eyes have finally lessened, her face fresher with it, brighter. 

How long had she not been able to sleep until she came to him, sought out the comfort of his arms?

“Hey.” She doesn’t reach for her coffee though; instead she takes another step forward, moves into him, shielding him from the view of the officers milling around the crime scene. Her gloved hands come up, hesitant at first as she reaches for his lapels, tugging his coat closed around him before she slips the top button through its buttonhole. 

He thinks he stops breathing as her fingers seem to linger against his body before they trail lower, finding the next button and closing it. She buttons the third, then the last and he wishes his coat had more buttons, hundreds of tiny ones so that she’d never stop touching him but her hands slide back up, palms pressed to his chest for a drawn-out moment. 

“Better?” She murmurs but it’s not really a question. Her eyes meet his, at once stark and fathomless and suddenly it’s about more than the coat, more than this moment. 

“Yeah,” he croaks, his heart in his throat. He wants to wrap his arms tightly around her, wants to tug her into his chest and fold himself around her, wants her to feel how much better it is, how it’ll keep getting better if only they keep doing this but he has no free hands and they’re in public so he just stares into the mysterious depths of her eyes and offers what he can. 

“Better.” 

\-- -- -- -- -- --

He sneaks the small envelope onto her desk when she isn’t looking, engrossed in a search on her desktop, her body leaned forward and her nose almost touching the screen. He leaves it just where his hand usually rests, where he sometimes drums his fingertips against the tabletop in thought until she slaps her hand over his, glaring at him to knock it off. 

Then Castle gets up, his offering unattended while he wanders over to the break room. He busies himself with making cappuccinos, one for her and one for himself, foaming the milk to perfection, taking much longer than usual. 

When he eventually walks back over toward her desk, setting one of the coffees in front of her, the little envelope has disappeared. 

She’s steadfastly staring at her paperwork, that cute little frown edged onto the bridge of her nose, her pen moving precisely as she fills in the blank lines but when he lays his palm on her desk, right where the envelope had been, for one fleeting, barely-there glance her fingers brush the tips of his. 

He leans back in his chair, hiding his satisfied grin behind the rim of his mug. They delve into the case, bounce theories back and forth but there’s a lightness to his heart, a quickness to his steps and a perpetual smile curling his lips that nothing can erase for the rest of the day.

Because now, she has his key.


	4. Chapter 4

He can’t sleep. 

He’s exhausted, has written for hours after he came home from the precinct, jittery with scenes unfolding in front of his inner eye. Fidgety until he felt the smooth, comforting familiarity of his keyboard beneath his fingertips, sank back into his desk chair and let his fingers fly with the clash, sprint, burn, tumble of the words racing through his mind. 

It purges him, usually. Leaves him drained, thoughts finally quiet after the images are poured out onto the page but not so tonight. 

He’s restless, his legs twitching as he tries to get comfortable. Too hot underneath the comforter but too cold without it. He flops onto his back, stares at the ceiling, watching the silhouettes painted onto the white surface, the shadow puppets penciled and smudged by the cavalcade of New York colors and lights, hazy tonight as they sneak their path through the wintry-wet fog. 

He stretches his arms out high above his head, then flaps them down to the side, up and down, making snow angels on the white expanse of his sheets. 

The bed is too wide, too empty. 

He’s waiting for her. 

He's tried to deny it, to ignore it. Tried to tell himself that he shouldn’t, that there’s no guarantee that she’ll come by, tonight or any other night, but it’s no use. His need for her grows by that upon which it feeds and now that he’s had her in his bed, held her in his arms, twice, there’s no going back. He wants her close, all the time, feels lonely and forlorn without her, yearns for her in that stark, forever kind of way. 

He reaches for his phone, unlocks the screen, staring at his messages. He locks the phone, throws it on the pillow beside him, then turns his back to it, squeezing his eyes closed as if that can force him to just finally fall asleep. But his pulse keeps racing, his senses heightened to every sound and sensation, a creak in a floorboard and the hum coming from the heating vents, the muted whirr of the city traffic that seems too loud for his ears and at last he turns over again, grabs his phone, and opens the message app. 

_Are you awake?_ His thumb smudges onto the ‘delete’ key and holds. 

_Come over._ Delete. 

_I miss you._

Fingers clamped around his phone, he freezes, stares at the message for a long time until the letters blur and run together in front of his eyes. They just don't do this. He wishes he could just say it but words aren’t a part of this intrinsic dance they’ve perfected over the past few years. It’s an odd kind of situation, he thinks, a writer unable to use his words but nobody has ever made him feel as tongue-tied as Kate. 

He lets out a deep breath and then he locks his phone; slowly, decisively puts it back on the nightstand. 

Rolling onto his side, Castle grabs for the pillow that he now thinks of as hers and snuggles it beneath his chin, folding his arms tightly around it. He thinks he can still smell her scent even though the sheets have since been washed. He buries his nose in the fabric and wishes it was her.

\-- -- -- -- -- --

"Castle. Castle." 

Her voice, oh so mellifluous. Whispers in the dark, like fall leaves that rustle in the breeze. Warm like sunshine on his back. Thick and sweet, like honey licked from the edges of the spoon. 

He’s drifting, neither here nor there, trawling through the depths of sleep, can’t seem to find the edges of reality. 

Not that he cares. This is so much better. He reaches for her, his hand fumbling through the darkness toward the sound of her voice and then she’s really there; warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips, the slender circumference of her wrist that fits so neatly within the cradle of his hand. 

“Kate,” he sighs, drawn-out vowels melting into the darkness as he hauls her against him, chest to chest, arms cradling her back and a leg draped over her hip, enfolding her in a snug embrace. And she lets him, burrows her face into his sternum, her breasts flattened against him.

He can't see, it's pitch-black or maybe his eyes are still closed? But he can feel - the warmth of her skin through her shirt, the soft sigh that falls from her lips. The way her ribcage expands with it, then sinks within the circle of his arms wrapped around her; every small nuance of her presence stark and real and encompassing. 

"Sleep, Castle," she whispers, her breath seeping through his shirt, like wide, damp brushstrokes painted to his skin, her mouth so enticingly close that he thinks he can almost feel her lips touching him despite the fabric that separates them. 

“Stay,” he mumbles, not sure if he said it out loud, too drowsy, too content, a bone-deep sensation that drags him under, his body heavy, so heavy as it sinks into the mattress. He tightens his limbs around her, arms and legs, the thinness of her folded against his chest, close and safe. 

Her palm cradles his ribcage, fingers splayed against his bones, and “I missed you too,” she sighs, so quiet it's barely there, or maybe he just imagines the words, the thickness of sleep clutching at him. 

His chin resting on top of her head, he breathes her in, inhales the indescribable comfort of Kate in his arms. 

“You smell like snowflakes.” 

And then he’s out.


End file.
